An Elegy to Keats

Chris Chen

Poet! Thy verse is like a sacred song,
That from the Nine was as a Gift deriv’d:
A craft that even Stagirite would long
To claim its authorship thou hast contriv’d
To pen; to pen, aye, pen instead of steal
The workmanship of God—for many more
Of such fine works thou hast produc’d, appeal’d
To me and to the wise in days of yore.
I mourn your death! I mourn the timeless loss
To Poesy’s Realm your early death begot;
I mourn we, reading, ne’er again across
Some oceans new your wondrous pen has wrought
May swim—O Keats! Thy verse is ne’er forgot;
Thou hast descent; thy Psyche aw’d has not.